


Treasured Words

by HolyCatsAndRabbits, SerenityStargazer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Community: Do It With Style Events, Feverish Confessions, First Kiss, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, It is the rabbit! Look at the bones!, M/M, Off-screen poisonous applesauce, Pining, Pirate Captain Crowley, Pirate Treasure, Pirates, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Resolved Pining, Romance, blatant Monty Python gag-stealing, on-screen miracled peach pie, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyCatsAndRabbits/pseuds/HolyCatsAndRabbits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityStargazer/pseuds/SerenityStargazer
Summary: Aziraphale follows the trail of a book onto a pirate ship and is attacked with a dagger forged in Hell. Lucky for him, the pirate captain's an oldfriendhereditary enemyCreated for the 2021 Good Omens Reverse Big Bang by SerentityStargazer (concept & art) and HolyCatsAndRabbits (fic).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 161
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Hurt Aziraphale, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: blood, non-graphically described knife injury
> 
> Thank you so much to the RBB mods for all their hard work!

1702

The Atlantic Ocean

Aziraphale should have been paying more attention. He was normally quite a cautious angel, guarding every word and step, carefully scripting his appearance before Heaven’s eyes, and those of a certain hereditary enemy of whom he was secretly far too fond. But he had one weakness: books.

Aziraphale had followed the trail of this particular book for over two centuries. A rare edition with costly binding and hand painted illustrations; a forgery in fact, but one created more from a love of artistry than of money. Aziraphale had known the forger, and as was the case with many humans who had burned brightly on this earth for what seemed no more than the flash of a match striking, Aziraphale missed her.

And so the lure of the book had led the angel here: a reverse sort of fishing, he supposed, tempting a land-dweller to miracle himself into the middle of the ocean, with only creaking, salt-encrusted boards between him and the vast sea below. It was, in fact, a pirate ship. (And this made sense— despite what Aziraphale felt was the true artistic worth of the book, to everyone else, it was simply expensive.)

So Aziraphale really should have been paying more attention. But instead, he had given himself over to unwrapping the dark cloth around the precious book, checking the painted pages for damage, trying to let the feel of it in his hands take him back to a warm afternoon that smelled of jasmine and sounded like laughter.

Had he _been_ paying attention, he might have noticed three rather intriguing (and disquieting) facts about this particular pirate ship: firstly, that there was an odd sort of smell about it, something that reminded one faintly of Hell; secondly, that the sort of supernatural aura that wafted through it suggested that it was not inhabited entirely by humans; and thirdly, that if the ship was following normal shipping lanes, it terribly was far off course.

These things, and the reason for them, became clear all at once when Aziraphale was stabbed in the shoulder by a dagger forged in Hell.

Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed the human creeping up behind him— and it was a human, this one, but now that Aziraphale was suddenly more aware of his surroundings, he could sense that there was a demon on board this ship. And that wasn’t all— the dagger stuck in his shoulder was not the only hellish artifact nearby. This wasn’t a normal pirate ship, chasing only human treasures: it was most likely being commanded by a demon on an errand for Hell, probably to find infernal objects, which explained the course deviation.

Aziraphale said none of this. What he said was less expansive and, in any case, not in any language the human could understand.

Still gasping from the pain, his protests ignored, Aziraphale was seized below the arms by a couple of humans and hauled up out of the hold. The sea air on deck was fresh and cool, but it did little to ease the burning in Aziraphale’s shoulder. The pirates dropped him, and Aziraphale hit the deck hard. His vision briefly shrank into darkness before the ship reappeared, and the endless sea beyond it.

Aziraphale was lying on his side, which gave him a good view of a large number of black boots stomping around on the deck. He could hear shouted conversations; the words _stowaway_ and _thief_ were repeated, and honestly, Aziraphale was a little miffed about being called a thief by a bloody _pirate,_ but nobody seemed to hear him when he tried to argue. Then one sound got past all the confusion, something somehow familiar. It was, Aziraphale realized, another pair of boots striding across the deck, but differently from all the others. This pair _sauntered._

Aziraphale had never in his life been more grateful to look up into a pair of dark glasses. His vision had started fading in and out again, but Aziraphale could make out the general shape of Crowley, the long, lovely lines of his corporation, and the unvarying colors of him: red as the sunset, black as night. His expression was unusual though: Aziraphale did not often see Crowley look afraid.

Strong, familiar hands lifted Aziraphale gently to his feet, but Crowley’s voice was a growl: “Angel, what on earth—” and it was then that Aziraphale realized he was still holding his prized book. Crowley took it from him, and Aziraphale promptly had another realization, which was that there was only one person in creation whom he would allow to pull a book out of his hands.

He didn’t see where the book went, because Crowley turned him around and let out quite a string of cursing in several languages, presumably when he saw the dagger and its wound. Crowley wrapped an arm tightly around Aziraphale’s middle, and then he touched the dagger, which sent a shock of burning pain through Aziraphale. Aziraphale must have tried to struggle away, because Crowley hissed into his ear— “Don’t fight me, you blassssted Principality, you know you’re sssstronger than I am—”

They weren’t reassuring words, or said in a calming voice, but Aziraphale recognized the meaning of them anyway. In Crowley’s arms, he let himself stop fighting. The dagger came out with a nauseating rush of pain, and then Aziraphale was picked up entirely. Crowley was strong enough to do that, at least. And Aziraphale was very grateful for it, because then he was free to pass out.

oOo

Thirty minutes ago, Crowley had been in command of a ship that contained forty-seven human sailors, a great many weapons, various human treasures, and two hellish artifacts. Now, the ship also contained an angel, and he was more dangerous than all of it.

Aziraphale, Crowley’s best friend (arguably his only friend), was lying in Crowley’s bed and bleeding not only red but gold, which meant that his true form had been wounded by something infernal. And there was little Crowley could do about it. Demonic power would not fix this. Heaven could, perhaps, and Crowley would have drawn the communication sigils on the floor himself if he trusted Heaven with anything near as precious as its most idiotic Principality.

A book, for Hell’s sake. Of course it was a book. Crowley vaguely recognized it, which explained why Aziraphale was so keen to have it: a souvenir of a happy time probably. Crowley could only hope, as he wrapped the stupid book back in its cloth, that its acquisition had been worth trying to steal treasure from a pirate.

Aziraphale did not stir as Crowley moved his white shirt aside to examine the wound. It wasn’t terribly deep, but the placement of it was worrisome. A regular blade would have missed anything that wasn’t present on this plane, but a hellish dagger was capable of also slicing through the dimension that contained Aziraphale’s wings.

A wound from a weapon of Hell was far more grave for an angel than any other type of injury. Aziraphale would not discorporate from damage like this. He would die.

Crowley removed the angel’s shirt, leaving him bare to the waist. Crowley had seen this much of Aziraphale’s corporation a few times over the years, but the sight didn’t affect him nearly as strongly now, with worry clouding his gaze. Crowley was glad that Aziraphale was still unconscious as he pressed, hard enough to be painful, between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades where his wings met the skin, digging into the spot in both dimensions. With a rush of white feathers, Aziraphale’s wings burst forth. The right one was wet with golden blood.

The angel didn’t stir the whole time Crowley was cleaning the wounds. His body did not breathe, and the reassuring heat of it might have been mostly due to the hellish wound. But thankfully, there was still something of Aziraphale there that Crowley could feel: that old, familiar ethereal electricity buzzing against his own infernal aura— plus something that was distinctly Aziraphale, something softer, quieter, and far stronger. 

Crowley bandaged the areas, binding Aziraphale’s wing against itself before coaxing it back off of the earthly plane, and then securing Aziraphale’s arm to his chest to protect the wound in his shoulder. He turned Aziraphale onto his side, so that the bandage was not in contact with the bedding.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, and to hope that at some point in the near future, Crowley would be scolding a foolish, ridiculous, _conscious_ angel. But Crowley had no idea how long that was going to take.

Tending to Aziraphale on this ship was dangerous for both of them. It would take some fancy footwork to explain it to their respective sides: what looked like caring for an angel was instead protecting a valuable source of information; what seemed to be an angel at the mercy of a demon was merely a plan to lure that demon into thinking that this angel was not a threat. Maybe. But Aziraphale needed to be here, for a great many reasons that Crowley did not wish to examine too closely. The most basic was this: whether Aziraphale was to recover or— or not, he should do it in the presence of someone who cared about him.

So definitely not Heaven.

Crowley had been captain of this ship for nearly a year now. Hell had outfitted it (poorly— they had no idea what humans ate, for one thing, and had provided bales of hay as vegetables), and filled it with sailors eager to seek out treasure. Crowley had led them on a few raids against other ships, which had filled their stores with goods that humans valued (including, regrettably, a crate of pricey books), while following the trail of three long-lost hellish artifacts. 

The first infernal piece was a ring, silver with a black stone. It was said to have belonged to some evil human who had worn it while performing sacrifices to Satan or some other sort of flattering thing. The important bit was that the ring had been easy to find, having been lost not because of any attempt to hide it, but simply due to Hell’s literally cursed filing system (Dagon, Lord of the Files, was about as organized as a two-year-old with a box of her mother’s makeup). The ring had been in a private collection, and that collection was now safely in the care of this ship.

The second artifact was that damned (literally) dagger. Crowley picked it up and wiped it clean of angelic blood. It was so ridiculous, the whole thing. This ship was full of weapons, none of which would have posed a serious danger to an angel. But of course, the sailor had picked up the one thing which was actually harmful. He should have just hit Aziraphale over the head with a book. That would have been more fitting.

The dagger was silver, with a darker hilt that almost seemed to split itself into fingers which reached toward its target. It gave Crowley the creeps, honestly. The dagger had been a gift from Hell to a loyal human servant several hundred years ago, and it had taken Crowley a lot of effort to find it. That was because at some point, some rational human had apparently decided the dagger gave him the creeps too, and he’d chucked it into a lake. The dagger had reappeared the next morning, back inside the house. 

What had followed was something Crowley wished he could have seen: a desperate and increasingly bizarre search for a way to contain the dagger. Crowley (well, technically his crew) had retrieved it from the resting place the humans had finally found: in the graveyard of a church, in the coffin of a priest, with two Bibles beneath it and four Bibles above, the top one open and Genesis 50:5 underlined with holy water mixed with ink _(Lo, I die: in my grave which I have digged for me in the land of Canaan, there shalt thou bury me)._

It was a shame to dig the damned thing up, really, but for the best, since the cemetery trees had started to produce poisoned apples on what were definitely not apple trees. It would be safer for everyone with the dagger back in Hell. 

The dagger had a body count, but it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the third hellish artifact, which Crowley _still_ could not believe Hell actually wanted to have in close proximity to anyone, the dreaded— 

There was a knock on the door, which startled Crowley into dropping the dagger. He hoped the cursed thing wouldn’t take revenge on him for that later. “What?” he yelled toward the door.

The door opened and a pirate peeked in. His eyes grew wide when he saw Aziraphale. “You tended to him, Captain?”

Crowley realized then that in all his musing about what to tell Heaven and Hell about Aziraphale’s presence on the ship, that he’d neglected to think of what to tell the humans. “He’s worth a fine ransom,” was the first idea that came into his mind.

Both Crowley and the sailor then gave Aziraphale a good look, no doubt noticing at the same time that the man was dressed in unremarkable clothes of inexpensive material, dyed a simple brown and white, with worn shoes. The angel had probably been working as a scribe, Crowley guessed.

“He’s heir to a wealthy family,” Crowley said hastily. “Doesn’t like to live with them, you know, no use for the finer things in life.”

This concept obviously made little sense to a pirate. “Oh,” the sailor said, and it sounded a lot like _Oh, pity the poor man, he’s mad._

“Except books,” Crowley added, and this seemed to get through.

The pirate nodded. “Shall I put him in the brig, then?”

“No! He’s no threat.”

Now the pirate got a bit of a smirk on his face. “And not bad to look at.”

Crowley sputtered and tried very hard not to let his face flush. “He’s worth nothing if he dies from lack of care,” he growled, and dismissed the man with a gesture.

Of course, Crowley admitted to himself, looking down at the sleeping angel, the pirate wasn’t wrong. The principality Aziraphale had always been inconveniently attractive. It was partly his smile, soft and friendly, a smile he’d offer even to an enemy on the wall of Eden. It was partly a natural ethereal beauty common to all angels, but (in Crowley’s opinion) more obvious in Aziraphale than any of the rest of them. And it was no doubt partly just that Crowley was hopelessly in love with him. Love had a bad habit of altering reality in a way no one could control. Love made you forget things like which side you were on, and why sides even mattered.

And love brought terror, the kind Crowley was feeling now. He gently adjusted Aziraphale’s body in the bed, fluffing his curls a little, tucking up a blanket. He didn’t usually get quite so near to Aziraphale, and the few touches he’d had today of angelic skin had destabilized his world a little bit.

The last time Crowley and Aziraphale had been on a ship together was in 3004 BC, when the earth had been drowning. The Ark was not a happy memory for Crowley. The only good thing about it was finding out that after a thousand years of knowing each other, Aziraphale’s affection for his demonic enemy had not faded. Once again, he had offered Crowley a place of warmth and shelter from a cold rain. 

It wasn’t Crowley’s fault that he had fallen in love with the only being who’d ever been kind to him.

And it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that he didn’t love Crowley in return. He was an angel. It was impossible for him to love a demon.

Aziraphale did trust Crowley, though. That was not new. Aziraphale had never feared this particular demon, had never hesitated to drink too much in his company, or fall asleep beside him, had never met him on a battlefield without the both of them immediately lowering their weapons. Aziraphale was really quite a bit cleverer than he liked to put on (actions taken in pursuit of books notwithstanding), and he had understood almost immediately that Crowley would never harm him. So his relief at seeing Crowley on this ship, when he’d just been wounded, was not unexpected. 

At least they had that.

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the bed, watching over the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. But as the sun sank low behind the ship, there was a stirring in the bed. Aziraphale’s mouth parted, and he finally took a breath. 

Crowley was relieved, for a second. And then Aziraphale made a noise of pain. His eyelashes fluttered but didn’t open. 

Evil was still spreading through his body, Crowley could sense it. And there was nothing he could do, anything he might try at this point would only harm the angel further. A demon couldn’t heal this, he could only amplify the demonic power— 

Or maybe— maybe that was the answer. Crowley got up and started tearing through a drawer in his desk, pushing aside papers, a piece of cloth, a pot of ink, a couple of coins, _oh so that was where the rest of that cheese went,_ and then, triumphantly, he drew forth a ring with a silver band and a large black stone. 

Crowley looked at the ailing angel on the bed, took a fortifying breath, and slipped the ring onto his finger.

_Ah._ So _that_ was why people liked the ring so much. Definitely not for its appearance, sort of tarnished and dull, but for the feeling of power suddenly coursing through him. The demonic energy in Crowley’s body responded eagerly to the ring, stretching out and gaining strength. 

Crowley cautiously approached Aziraphale on the bed. The ring could feel the infernal infection in the angel, and reached out for it. Crowley let it go, let it gather, let it gain strength. The ring started to grow painfully hot on his finger, but it was nothing compared to the whole boiling-sulfur thing, so Crowley dismissed it.

Calmly, carefully, he started to take a few steps away from the angel. The ring didn’t like that. It grasped harder at the demonic energy in Aziraphale’s body. The farther away Crowley moved, the harder the ring pulled. And Aziraphale’s corporation was hardly strong enough to fight it. In one rather painful instant, the ring clawed all of the infection out of Aziraphale and drew it into itself.

Crowley’s cry of success was somewhat muted, because his body was busy delighting in the overwhelming hellish energy coming from the ring. But Crowley’s mind had not surrendered to the high quite yet. With a hiss, he pried the ring from his finger and threw it across the room. It struck the wall with a much louder noise than it should have made, and for a moment, the room grew dark and close and far too warm. In the dim light, Crowley could vaguely make out the ring jumping along the floor, seeming to grow larger and larger. 

And then it was over. The room returned to normal and the ring lay quietly on the floor.

“Huh,” Crowley said. “I hope that doesn’t come back to bite me.”

He leaned over Aziraphale, and found, to his great relief, that he was waking. “Your arm is bandaged, angel,” Crowley said. “Don’t move too much.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes opened and settled onto his face, but still looked unfocused. “Crowley?”

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, with that beautiful smile. “How lovely. Come in. Would you like some tea?”

Aziraphale squirmed a little, and Crowley put a hand on his forehead. Aziraphale was still far too warm. There was no infernal energy left in him, but the damage had been done. In theory, Aziraphale’s body could now heal itself— but there was no telling how long that was going to take.

“Sit down,” Aziraphale said. “Sit with me. Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

Crowley sat on the bed beside him. “Aziraphale, lie still. You have a fever. You’re hurt.”

“I _am_ too warm,” Aziraphale complained. “You know, I thought I’d see you at the Ball. You’d be all in black, I guessed, but a blood-red blouse and maybe silver in the lining of your gloves.” Aziraphale looked at him with clear disappointment. “Oh, Crowley, everything is too _bright_ without you. Endless white light. Bloody boring. I looked for you everywhere at the Ball. We could have danced.”

Crowley made some sort of unamused noise. “You and I don’t know how to dance. Look, we’re not at your lodgings or a Ball. We’re on a ship. My ship, for the moment. Do you remember?”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes flashed with excitement. “I know that we’re on a ship! The humans finally figured it out. Underneath the waves, all warm and dry—” He tried to move his injured arm.

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s hand, holding it gently still. “No, no sub-ocean boats yet. We’re above. On a pirate ship.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Well,” he grumbled. “So long as you’re with me.” He twitched a little. “I think something’s wrong with my wing.”

“You’re _injured,”_ Crowley repeated. “You’ve been stabbed with an infernal dagger. And just my luck, now you’re feverish and making no sense.”

Aziraphale took a moment to look at Crowley in that way he did sometimes, with his eyes distant and his smile soft. It reminded Crowley of the way one would pose for a painting, knowing that whatever you were looking at would endure only in your own memory, while somehow, oddly, the image of you looking would instead be preserved. “You make sense,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “That’s not what you normally say.”

“No. That’s because I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me what?” Crowley asked cautiously.

Aziraphale smiled. “Sit down, have some tea. Oh, I’ve missed you, my dear.”

Crowley groaned. “At the moment, I’m very much missing _you._ The actual, conscious you. Are you in pain, angel? I can try to help with that.”

“Crowley, will you just _sit down?”_

Crowley raised his hands. “Look, I’m sitting. I’ll stay for tea, all right?”

Aziraphale beamed at him now. “Oh, good. My God, this place gets lonely without you. Empty chairs. The wine goes un-drunk. I’d find you if I could. If I thought they wouldn’t notice. I’d sit you on my couch and just look at you for a whole week.” He sighed. “Do you know, once you fell asleep and that’s all I did. I couldn’t stay a week, too dangerous. So I just took the day and looked at your hands. Another time your shoulders, and once that spot where your hair comes down by your ear, just on the left side. I had to, you know that, don’t you? Because I need to be able to see you in my mind when you’re not here.”

It took Crowley a moment to find his voice. “Aziraphale, you’re— you’re ill. Just tell me, does it hurt anywhere?”

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“Where it always has, ever since I met you.” Aziraphale met his eyes, fevered and earnest. “Oh, Crowley. Let me finally tell you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale woke up lying on his stomach, in an unfamiliar place, in pain, and somehow restrained— but the rising panic in him broke at the sound of a familiar voice and the feel of an unfamiliar but identifiable hand on his back.

“Angel, you’re safe. It’s all right.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale let Crowley help him to sit up. “What—” As his vision came into focus Aziraphale took in what was clearly a berth on a ship, and a large one at that. Suitable for an officer perhaps— and then he got a good look at Crowley and realized what was going on.

Crowley wore black trousers, of course, and far too tight, with a red sash around them as a belt. He had another red scarf of sorts tied around his throat. His shirt, though, was far lighter than usual— not quite white, but a pale grey. The clothes looked stunning on him, as did everything, but these pieces were rich with detail, expensive, cut to follow every angle of Crowley’s corporation, which was doing its usual half-hearted job at imitating humans. Crowley was someone of import on this ship. And that was no uniform.

“Crowley— you’re a pirate captain.”

Crowley’s mouth lifted up into a smirk. “Beats being a scribe.”

“I’ll have you know that there is a simple pleasure in putting word to paper—” Aziraphale twisted a little and became aware that his arm was not following instructions. And it appeared to be bandaged. “What—” And then it came back to him. _“Oh.”_

Crowley was not smirking now. His hand moved gently over the bandage, which covered Aziraphale’s right shoulder and bound his arm to his chest. His bare chest. 

“Are you in pain?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale was, but his embarrassment was the more pressing problem at the moment. “Crowley, I’m sorry.”

Crowley looked surprised. Aziraphale could see his golden eyes widen because his dark glasses had been abandoned on a nearby desk. There was sun coming in from a couple of small windows, and it made Crowley’s hair glow fire-red as it fell around his shoulders. “It’s okay,” Crowley said. “I’m just glad you’re awake.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two days. You ran a fever the first day.” Crowley got up and moved away. “Took some doing, but I got you cooled down. I think you’ll be all right now if you continue to rest.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said.

For that, Crowley gave him a sneer. “Borrowed trouble, you are. Last thing I needed was an angel on this ship.”

“No, I expect not.” Aziraphale looked about for his shirt and didn’t see it. He supposed Crowley had been looking at him half-naked for two days, so there wasn’t much use in trying to cover up now. It wasn’t like it would matter to Crowley how many clothes Aziraphale wore. Aziraphale was not the tempting one. “But it’s against the Arrangement,” Aziraphale said. “My presence here will get in the way of your mission. I should—”

Crowley was back before Aziraphale could fully stand up, forcing him to sit back down onto the bed. “Absolutely not. You’re not fully healed.”

“But your assignment—”

“Sod it!” For a second Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes and there was clear pain there, and fear. Then Crowley seemed to remember himself, and he moved away again. “I just mean, angel, if you go off on your own and get worse, Heaven could find out. And if they learn you nearly died over a book, what are they going to do? Decide you’re too stuck on human things, that’s what. They’ll keep you up there.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, just so long as Hell doesn’t realize I’m here.”

Crowley shrugged. “How are they going to know?” He brightened a little. “You must be hungry. I’ll get you something.”

“Crowley— I hope I wasn’t too much trouble. Especially with a fever. I didn’t fight you too hard, did I?”

Crowley’s eyes widened for a second, and then he turned away, reaching for his dark glasses. “Fight me? No. No, you just talked, that’s all. Thought we were somewhere else. Anyway, you were delirious. It was complete nonsense.”

Before Aziraphale could answer that, Crowley was gone from the room.

And Aziraphale was left sitting half-naked in Crowley’s bed. This was, unfortunately, not the first time Aziraphale had found his thoughts running toward the subject of being at least partially naked in Crowley’s bed. Of course, the reality failed to live up to the hope. Aziraphale was not here because Crowley desired him. It was because Aziraphale had been a complete idiot over a book. He’d caused Crowley no end of trouble, and no doubt Crowley thought him a fool. 

And yet Aziraphale couldn’t quite regret ending up here, able to spend more time with Crowley than they usually allowed themselves. Aziraphale was always hungry for an extra hour in the company of the person he loved more than anything else in creation.

Not that he could ever tell Crowley that. Aziraphale trusted Crowley with his life— and rightly so— but the fact that Crowley’s friendship made his life worth living— that Aziraphale could never say.

Crowley was back a few minutes later with a tray of food that smelled wonderful. Aziraphale gratefully tucked in. As an angel, he wasn’t really right- or left-handed, so having one arm bound didn’t slow him down much.

“So I assume you are looking for more Hellish artifacts,” Aziraphale said later, over a piece of peach pie. He doubted that there was either a peach or someone who could make a pie to be found on this ship, and thus appreciated the effort even more. “What’s on your list?”

Crowley made a vague noise and looked away. 

“Crowley.”

The demon shrugged a shoulder. “Well, it’s just one more. I’ve got two already. The dagger you’ve met.”

Aziraphale frowned down at his pie. “Yes. So I have. I believe it’s called the _Infernal Blade.”_

“Beats _Hell-Made Stabby-Thing,_ I guess.” 

“Where was it hidden?”

“Grave of a priest, stack of Bibles.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Humans’ ingenuity. I can’t believe they finally found a way.”

There was a bit of a clattering noise behind Crowley, but Aziraphale couldn’t see what had made it. Crowley, oddly, didn’t turn to look. “Well, they mostly found a way,” he said. “Long as you don’t have a taste for applesauce.”

“What’s the other artifact you have?”

The noise came again, from somewhere near the desk. Crowley looked at the floor now. “Eh, it’s just a ring.”

“Oh, the obsidian one? I thought I sensed that. The _Ring Sharp as Glass?”_

“I don’t know who names these things,” Crowley complained. “It’s not sharp at all, it’s just hot.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “You put it on? Crowley! That ring is dangerous!”

“Yeah, I know.” Crowley sighed as a louder clattering sounded in the room, as if something were falling onto the floor. But Aziraphale could still not see what was causing it. “I, uh— I think I may have made it worse,” Crowley said.

“You what?”

The demon finally acknowledged what was happening behind him, pointing a finger over his shoulder. “Meet _worse,”_ he said wearily.

Aziraphale had once seen lightning start a fire in a hollow tree. On the outside, the tree looked unaffected, but smoke billowed out from the inside, clogging the air and casting the tree into heated shadow. The figure that was materializing in the room looked like that, solid and sure, but with hellish corruption swirling around it. It was dressed all in black and held a glinting, smoking sword. Once it had fully appeared, the clattering noise stopped, and Aziraphale realized then that it had been the infernal ring jumping along the floor. Now it lay still at the figure’s feet.

“Former owner, I think?” Crowley sighed, climbing to his feet. “Pretty sure he was inside the ring.”

“And you let him out?” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Why on earth—”

Crowley met that outburst with a particular form of silence that Aziraphale knew all too well, the kind of injured speechlessness that overtook Crowley when he had been falsely accused of something.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said quietly, after grasping what must have happened with Crowley and the ring— and himself. But before he could apologize, he was struck silent himself as Crowley stretched out his hand and materialized a sword into it.

Now, Crowley was, Aziraphale had noticed immediately on meeting him, quite ridiculously attractive. He was Temptation Incarnate, so it came naturally to him. But Aziraphale had known the demon for six thousand years, so he had more or less grown used to the fact that when he and Crowley sat together to watch a sunset over the ocean, that Aziraphale would spend most of the time watching Crowley instead. Aziraphale understood that whenever Crowley changed his hairstyle, it would distract Aziraphale for the better part of the day. But he could handle these things, he had been handling them now for a very long time.

But. It was _still_ possible for Crowley to do something that threw Aziraphale completely off balance, leaving him unable to do anything but stare. And this, apparently, unfortunately, was one of them: Crowley as a pirate captain, in the midst of a sword fight. 

Crowley wasn't human, and he didn’t move like one. He sauntered instead of walked, and now, engaged in swashbuckling with a shadowy figure, he swayed with a serpentine grace. He was all long legs and narrow hips, broad shoulders, fire-bright hair. The hand holding the sword fascinated Aziraphale, the length of the fingers, the way they clasped tightly to the hilt. Aziraphale may or may not have let out a little sigh of longing.

Of course, all this was not to say that Crowley was any good at sword fighting. There was an awful lot of stomping of boots going on, and clashing of swords, with little to show for it.

“He leads from the left,” Aziraphale advised. “Try to block—”

“I bloody know he leads from the left,” Crowley snapped at him. “This is the fifth time I’ve fought this bastard!”

“Well, hold your elbow a little—”

Crowley scowled at him, dodging a blow. “You think you can do better with one arm?” 

Aziraphale made the sort of noise that one makes when one wants to express a negative opinion, but kindly. He stood up. “Crowley, toss me the sword.”

Crowley scowled harder. “I have defended the both of us five times—”

“Not with holy fire, you haven’t!”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Yeah, all right.” He went on the offense, backing the shadow figure toward the wall, and then retreated, throwing Aziraphale the sword. 

The instant the sword landed in Aziraphale’s hand, it blazed bright with heavenly flame. Crowley took a few prudent steps backwards, and Aziraphale came to stand in front of him. 

It didn’t take long after that. It didn’t even take much fighting. The light of the sword burned away the shadows and smoke until there was simply a dark figure standing there, seeming awfully surprised, and Aziraphale ran him through. He seemed to melt away, and then there was nothing left but the ring.

Aziraphale doused the flame on Crowley’s sword, and they came to peer down at the ring. “It’s damaged now,” Aziraphale observed.

Crowley sighed. “I’ll tell Hell it was like that when I found it.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Jolly good. Well.” He handed Crowley back his sword, and Crowley fastened it at his hip. And Aziraphale was staring again. “Um, so what’s the last artifact you're looking for?” he asked. “I imagine it will be a walk in the park compared to the ring.”

This question was met with the kind of silence that Crowley lapsed into when he didn’t want to tell Aziraphale something.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sharply. 

Crowley ushered him back to the bed and sat him down, handing him back his pie, which was miraculously warm again. “It’s the Duck,” Crowley mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“The Duck,” Crowley repeated, enunciating carefully.

A piece of peach fell off of Aziraphale’s fork, landing back on the plate. “Not the Duck of Doom!” he exclaimed. “Crowley, that’s far too dangerous!”

“I can handle it!” Crowley protested. “Hell tasked me with getting it, they trust me to get it, I can get it.”

“Because you always lie to Hell about your success!” Aziraphale put his fork down, his appetite lost. “Well, there’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to thwart you.”

Crowley’s reaction was a single raised eyebrow. “You’re going to thwart me. Injured and helpless.”

Aziraphale scowled at him. “I just defeated a ghost-shadow-ring-thing! Oh, there’s got to be a better name for him.”

“Without hardly fighting,” Crowley reminded him. “And you’re not exactly ready to fly home.”

“Well, no, but I can still interfere—”

Crowley shook his head. “Nope, that’s against the Arrangement. You said so yourself.”

“It’s not against the Arrangement to want you not to die, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “That’s the reason you’ve got me here in the first place! My safety overrode the rules. Yours does the same for me.”

Crowley’s expression had changed. He wasn’t looking angry now, just somehow— vulnerable. “Look, you don’t have to. You don’t owe me or anything. I took care of you because I wanted to, we’re friends, you know, so—”

“Friends don’t let friends bring homicidal ducks aboard their ships.”

“Angel—”

“Just tell Hell I thwarted you!”

“The same Hell that’s not supposed to know you’re here?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well—”

“And if Hell knows, then Heaven will.”

“Sod it!”

The look on Crowley’s face was unprecedented: surprised, soft, halfway to heartbroken. Aziraphale didn’t understand what was causing it, but it made him want to fold Crowley into his arms, all the sharp angles and stark colors of him, to speak to him in whispers from a mouth pressed against his skin. It was always so painful for Aziraphale to deny the part of himself that still wanted to guard against sorrow and pain.

Very quietly, Crowley said, “Angel, I need to ask you—” But even as the words came out, Crowley was shaking his head. “Never mind. I’ve got stuff to do, you get some rest.”

“Crowley—”

But he was gone again.

oOo

Crowley was going mad. There was an angel in his quarters, a conscious one now, and things had just gone from bad to worse. A conscious Aziraphale did things like smile and laugh and scold, and every movement of his mouth had Crowley mesmerized. He could not stop remembering the moment two days ago when that mouth had formed the words, _Crowley, let finally me tell you,_ and then said things that Crowley had dreamed of hearing for six thousand years.

But it wasn’t real. There had been uncountable opportunities for Aziraphale to confess his feelings over the years, and the only time he had was when he was feverish and out of his mind, thinking they were on a boat that sailed beneath the waves. And now that the angel was awake, he didn’t seem to remember a word of it.

But Crowley was never going to be able to look at Aziraphale again without knowing what those words sounded like coming from his mouth.

Crowley was interrupted in his staring at the wall by a sailor who darted up to him. “Captain, we’ve sighted the island.”

Crowley could tell they were close, he could feel the Duck’s infernal aura creeping across the water like poisonous fog, which wasn’t really a thing, but with the Duck, you never knew. “All right,” he said. “Get a boat ready.”

There was nothing to do then but go back into his quarters and face the angel.

Aziraphale was sitting on the bunk with that stupid book open in his lap. 

“I’ve got to change your bandage before I go,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale raised cool blue eyes to him. “In case you don’t come back, you mean?”

Crowley scowled at him. “Just let me see.”

Aziraphale put down the book. Crowley sat on the other side of him, putting careful hands on the bandage, not touching Aziraphale’s skin. As it unwound Crowley was glad to see that the wound had grown smaller since the last change. Aziraphale gently stretched his arm, groaning with relief. Crowley ignored the groan— or tried to— and watched the wound site move. “I think if you’re careful, we can leave your arm free now,” he said.

Aziraphale said, “Thank you,” and Crowley ignored that too.

When the bandage had been replaced, Crowley asked Aziraphale to call up his wings. They burst into the room in a rush of white feathers.

“How does it look?” the angel asked.

“Better. Could use some holy water.”

Aziraphale glared at him over his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it.”

“It’s okay, angel, I’ve only got the one death wish today.”

Aziraphale’s sigh made his wing flutter a little. “How can I be so angry and so happy with you at the same time? I’ve never figured it out.”

Crowley smoothed a few feathers as he finished fixing the bandage around them. “That’s why I always bring you dessert. Keeps you happy enough that you don’t smite me.”

Aziraphale turned around, folding his wings back gently. “I don’t want to smite you,” he said softly. “I would have done it in Eden if that were the case.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Aziraphale looked surprised by the question. In six thousand years, Crowley had never asked it. “Well— it seemed impolite.”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Impolite? Aziraphale, I’d just caused the Fall of Man.”

“You were doing your job.” Aziraphale reached for him, and as usual when the angel dared this sort of thing, the hand hovered a moment above Crowley’s skin. Crowley waited for Aziraphale to pull it back, as he always did. But this time, he did not. Aziraphale let his hand fall on top of Crowley’s. 

“I don’t mind you doing your job, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s face. “And I know that if you fail, Hell will punish you and I don’t want that, but you can’t— not this, Crowley, it’s too dangerous.”

Crowley put a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek. He hadn’t meant to, so it surprised the both of them. But Aziraphale did not pull away. His mouth parted, his breathing hitching a little. Crowley was transfixed looking at his mouth. Aziraphale had never allowed this before, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he had, and Crowley was helpless before it. He felt like he weighed nothing, just the husk of a thing, a leaf floating on the warm breeze that was Aziraphale. 

_“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale said, in that soft, prim sort of begging tone that he used for something he really wanted, and Crowley responded immediately, conditioned to give the angel whatever he desired. But this time, that meant leaning in to press his mouth— 

There was a pounding on the door. Aziraphale and Crowley sprang apart. Aziraphale’s cheeks blazed red and he averted his eyes.

“Put your wings away,” Crowley snapped as he got up to answer the door. He looked back to see that Aziraphale had miracled himself up a shirt as well. It hid the bandage, and suddenly Aziraphale looked like he always did— no longer vulnerable. No longer needing help.

Crowley jerked the door open. “What?”

“Boat’s ready, Captain.”

oOo

Aziraphale did not attempt to come with the landing party. Crowley half expected him to appear on deck and insist, but there was no sign of the angel as they dropped into the ocean, as they rowed in with the breakers, as they pulled the boat up onto the sand. The island was wind-swept and thick with trees that bowed inward, protecting what lay in the island’s center.

Crowley could feel the evil in the air, and it seemed that even some of the sailors could as well. It felt unnatural here, with sand wet enough to suck at your feet but at the same time dry enough to fly into your eyes no matter which way you turned. Crowley was about to yell at the pirates to follow him when he found himself looking at an angel standing on the beach. 

Crowley growled at him in frustration. “You are not well enough to be here!”

Aziraphale did look weary from the miracle, but he didn’t back down. “No one is well enough,” he snapped, “it’s the Duck of Doom. It’s got a body count higher than several wars.”

Crowley ignored him to focus on the sailors, sending them searching in the wrong direction. They went with hesitation, perhaps realizing that nowhere on this island was going to feel entirely safe.

As Crowley started off in the right direction, Aziraphale hastened to keep up. “You can’t have it on your ship, Crowley, you could die! Permanently! How the Hell can you not understand this? It’s the same thing you did for me with the dagger and that damned ring—”

Aziraphale’s sentence ended in a squeak as Crowley turned and grasped him firmly by the arms. “It’s not the same thing, you blasted angel, because you don’t—”

The silence lasted long enough that Aziraphale asked, “I don’t what?” 

“You don’t feel this,” Crowley whispered. “I know you don’t. You can’t.” His hands gentled on Aziraphale. “Oh, angel, but you said you did, and I’ve been going crazy with it. So please, tell me that you don’t. I need to hear it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Tell you— tell you that it’s all right if you die? If I lose you? I can’t. Crowley, I—”

The words, when finally said, were caught up against Crowley’s mouth, but Crowley heard them anyway. 

_I love you._

Crowley kissed the words out of Aziraphale’s mouth, his hands sinking into the angel’s white curls. Aziraphale kissed him back ardently. He clung to Crowley, and opened to him, meeting Crowley’s tongue with his own, and making a moaning noise that nearly shivered Crowley apart. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. “Oh, Crowley.” He kissed Crowley’s throat, his jawbone, the serpent sigil beneath his ear. “Oh, darling, if you die, who’s going to bring me dessert?”

“Oh,” Crowley said. He pulled back to look at Aziraphale. “Yeah. Guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

Aziraphale smiled, gazing up at him with that soft look. “No, it seems you didn’t.”

“So— uh— what do we do now?”

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose we start by finding the damned thing.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Right. The— the Duck. Well, I don’t think that will be too hard.”

There was a path through the trees marked by barren ground. As Crowley and Aziraphale walked it, their shoes squelched with some substance Crowley did not wish to identify. After a few minutes, the bird song died out and they started seeing bones. Eventually, there was a clearing in the woods, and they stepped up to it gingerly. 

“There it is,” Aziraphale said softly. He reached out and took Crowley’s hand, and Crowley could feel him trembling slightly.

The Duck of Doom lay in the center of the clearing, in a circle of dead earth. It was nothing more than a little wooden duck tipped over on its side, warped a bit from the rain. It looked like an abandoned toy. 

“It was a kind of oil to start,” Crowley said. “The hellish artifact. Glittery, with sandy bits mixed in. Smelled great, apparently. Some idiot demon was dumb enough to think it was perfume.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Put it on his arm. When his hand fell off, he figured he’d better try to wash the rest of it away. Jumped in a bathtub. Didn’t survive it, obviously.”

“And in the tub was the duck.”

“Yeah. And all the evil-y stuff got transferred to it.”

A breeze blew through the clearing and brought a rather nasty odor with it. Crowley began to notice some relatively new clothes scattered around. Clothes that looked like the ones his pirates had been wearing.

“It’s got fresh blood on its beak,” Aziraphale said, in a queasy sort of voice. “Look, I’ve no idea how Hell even expects you to get that thing on board. And even if you do, I don’t know that anyone on the ship would survive long enough to deliver it.”

“Humans would probably try to throw it overboard,” Crowley said, and then he and the angel looked at each other.

“Could tell Hell that’s what happened,” Aziraphale suggested. “But we actually leave it here. If Hell thinks it’s in the middle of the ocean, maybe they’ll stop trying to get it back.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. That’ll work.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand and stretched up to kiss Crowley on the mouth, a lingering, smoldering thing. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad I told you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are so appreciated! 
> 
> Find SerenityStargazer on [Tumblr](https://shipping-vaguely-downwards.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DebraChampion10), and [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/serenitystargazer/).
> 
> Find HolyCatsAndRabbits (Dannye Chase) on her [Carrd](https://dannyechase.carrd.co//) and her [Linktree](https://linktr.ee/DannyeChase)  
> 


End file.
